“The very watchmen are asleep,” said d'Alcacer.
“There is nothing secret in this expedition, but I prefer not to call any one. Perhaps you wouldn't mind pulling me off yourself in our small boat.”
It seemed to her that d'Alcacer showed some hesitation. She added: “It has no importance, you know.”
He bowed his assent and preceded her down the side in silence. When she entered the boat he had the sculls ready and directly she sat down he shoved off. It was so dark yet that but for the brig's yard-arm light he could not have kept his direction. He pulled a very deliberate stroke, looking over his shoulder frequently. It was Mrs. Travers who saw first the faint gleam of the uncovered sandspit on the black, quiet water.
“A little more to the left,” she said. “No, the other way. . . .” D'Alcacer obeyed her directions but his stroke grew even slower than before. She spoke again. “Don't you think that the uttermost farthing should always be paid, Mr. d'Alcacer?”
D'Alcacer glanced over his shoulder, then: “It would be the only honourable way. But it may be hard. Too hard for our common fearful hearts.”
“I am prepared for anything.”
He ceased pulling for a moment . . . “Anything that may be found on a sandbank,” Mrs. Travers went on. “On an arid, insignificant, and deserted sandbank.”
D'Alcacer gave two strokes and ceased again.
“There is room for a whole world of suffering on a sandbank, for all the bitterness and resentment a human soul may be made to feel.”